The fact that women’s wrestling even exists goes to show that minds have been opened wide, even if some creak a little in the process. It wasn’t always like that.

Some 20 years ago, my second grader, Stephanie, announced she was going to sign up for the Popeye Wrestling Club. Steeped as I was in traditional gender roles, I patiently explained that only little boys could join. Unconvinced, Stephanie insisted we go to the first practice “just to see.”

At the gym the next Saturday, I watched with wary eye as dozens of little boys and my daughter (her long pigtail making her gender very apparent) did wrestling exercises. No one said anything out loud, but I caught many a puzzled look from other parents, mostly the paternal type.

I focused on the mat, as each potential wrestler was to do a leg lift as long as possible and then run laps until the last person’s legs dropped. I stepped outside for a break, and when I returned, the only leg-lifter left was the pig-tailed one. Everyone else was doing laps and not looking happy about it. I guessed that Stephanie’s daily swimming practices had strengthened her stomach muscles.

The stage was set for a season of my chronic embarrassment; to wit: a son being assigned “THE GIRL” (enunciated with great exaggeration and venom) as partner, or worse, as opponent, made many a father lock me in a psychological full Nelson with his dagger stare. How could I cause emotional damage to fragile, fledgling male egos of the boys Stephanie out-wrestled or even pinned? To this day I don’t know if they recovered from the trauma. (I’m talking about the dads; I think the kids got over it.)

Relief can’t begin to explain how I felt on the first day of third grade when no mention was made of Popeye.

My nightmare reared its head, however, in fourth grade, when Stephanie, whose pigtail was even longer now, decided it was time to go back to the mat.

My stomach churned as I realized that while a ruffled second-grade male ego can be assuaged with minimal effort, a fourth-grade ego is in full bloom of impending psychosis. At least it seemed like that if I read the fathers’ expressions right. Stephanie, however, seemed blissfully unaware and couldn’t understand why I dragged my feet to practice.

To their credit, the coaches seemed to appreciate Stephanie’s ability to take on adversity from all sides, not just the mat. They coached her to the extent that she qualified for the regional meet in Kenai. The trouble was, that along with her siblings, she was scheduled to attend a swim meet in Soldotna that day.

We decided I would scratch her from swimming events until her dad brought her to the pool after she had been eliminated from the tournament. I was hoping a swimming ribbon would offset a wrestling loss.

As the whistle blew for the second to last race, and I wondered what was keeping her, she burst into the stands brandishing a medal. She had placed in the competition even though “a mean boy kept pulling my hair!” Then, she was off to change from her singlet to her Speedo.

That was the end of the Popeye era for us. Stephanie went on to become a marathon runner placing 12th woman overall in the Los Angeles Marathon at age 17. Today, she lives in Colorado and continues to make sports a big part of her life.

As I read about the bona fide Homer girl wrestlers which are now a matter of course, it seems that today’s grapplers face adversity on the mat alone, maybe in part due to my daughter’s undaunted effort as a very young pioneer in closing the gender gap.